Once Upon a Seven O'Clock

Father leaned in close. Mike smelled the signs.

“Find my shoes.” Blunt and hoarse.

Mike hunted and found them in the bathroom, splattered with vomit. He wiped off the first. Shadow fell on him.

“What you are doin’?”

The bow knocked Mike against the toilet bowl. His right ear whistled.

“I’m late.” Father perched on the edge of the bath. “Tonight.” First shoe. “You’re for it.” Second shoe. “You and me are going to have a little talk. Be here at seven.” He spat the last word and left.

Mike breathed.

They said he’d had a mother but he knew better than to ask.

At school, he ground his teeth and pinched his leg but the period bells rang and rang like an old cup against heavy steel. At three he walked home through the barren park.

From the couch he counted the red flowers on the wallpaper.

Across the street lights flicked on. Headlights lurked and went. Other people came home. Shadow creatures spawned beyond his periphery.

The minutes died on the VCR. His teeth ached. It struck seven and he held his breath. At seven ten he started to wonder. Headlights flashed into the driveway.

The car door slammed. Another? The key in the lock.

“Wait in the car.” A man’s voice.

“This is my house.”

“Wait. In. The. Car.”

He was an anvil welded to the couch, ears stretched. The front door pushed across the mat. A hand fumbled for the light switch.

“Mike are you here Mike.” Not his fathers voice? Footsteps towards the kitchen. Light switch. The steps came towards him. He saw father’s hands, fathers shape. He flew behind the TV.

“Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”

“Mike. It’s uncle John.” In the dark, barricaded in small arms the words repeated.

A warm hand took his shoulder. The bough broke. He heard the words, not his father’s, telling him everything was okay, asking him to pack things.

For three days, his uncle and aunt fed him like he was a rescue dog. “When do I have to go back.” He counted the peas.

“Never.”

And he lived.